"I thought she
had been very ill."
"So she has," said Ferrier--"very ill. It is amazing to see her here."
"And Frobisher?"
Ferrier made no reply. Chide's expression showed perplexity, perhaps a
shade of coldness. In him a warm Irish heart was joined with great
strictness, even prudishness of manners, the result of an Irish Catholic
education of the old type. Young women, in his opinion, could hardly be
too careful, in a calumnious world. The modern flouting of old
decorums--small or great--found no supporter in the man who had
passionately defended and absolved Juliet Sparling.
But he followed the rest to the greeting of the new-comers. Diana's hand
was in Miss Vincent's, and the girl's face was full of joy; Marion
Vincent, deathly white, her eyes, more amazing, more alive than ever,
amid the emaciation that surrounded them, greeted the party with smiling
composure--neither embarrassed, nor apologetic--appealing to Frobisher
now and then as to her travelling companion--speaking of "our week at
Orvieto"--making, in fact, no secret of an arrangement which presently
every member of the group about her--even Sir James Chide--accepted as
simply as it was offered to them.
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